Deadly Sins
by LejindaryBunny
Summary: A trip to Wonka's factory hasn't burned the anger out of Mike Teavee, and as he grows, his bitterness grows with him. Will he ever recover from the wounds of childhood? probably oneshot


Deadly Sins

Mike Teavee had been horribly wounded that fateful day at the chocolate factory, as Willy Wonka had surely known that he would be. Children however, have amazing physical recuperative capacities, which Mr. Wonka had also known, and counted on.

What the candy-maker had not counted on, or perhaps, in his own delicate state of mind not cared to acknowledge, was that the wounds on a child's mind are so much deeper and more difficult to heal, and sometimes they never do.

In that factory of the deranged, Mike had undergone tortures that could likely get Wonka tried under the Geneva convention. Even supposing that the initial shrinking had been his own fault, and not an elaborate set-up of the mad chocolatier, Wonka hadn't had any reason to send his Oompa Loompa things after him!

And then the stretching. Mike had been strapped into a device that resembled nothing better than the medieval torture of the rack, while his sniveling, useless father looked on , unable, or unwilling to do anything to help his own son. Mike had endured the pain, silently at first, with his eyes full of fury, determined to take this twisted punishment for his own curiosity like the man he was. But the pain had been too great, and eventually he fell to cursing and railing, and when the pain blanked his mind completely, simply to screaming, and screaming, and screaming. At some point, his father left the room altogether.

When he had come back to consciousness, still strapped in the device his mind ached and his muscles screamed. It shouldn't have worked, it couldn't have worked, not under the laws of physics. And yet Mike found his limbs and body horribly stretched and distended, horrified, he had demanded, as soon as he was reunited with his miserable father, that they sue Wonka for, at the very least, reckless endangerment of children. But his father had refused; Mr. Wonka could afford the finest lawyers, or so Mr. Teavee said.

Mike was angry, very, very angry, and that was a dangerous thing indeed. So what if his limbs had quickly regained their proper 13 year-old boy shape? He had won the contest, and instead of a reward, he and all the others had received the equivalent of a spanking and a harsh lecture from a deranged chocolate maker who was more likely than not, a pedophile! It was outrageous. Where did this nut job get off trying to punish them?

The urge to revenge himself on this great, maniacal idiot clung to Mike like a black shroud. It was there when he woke up in the morning, and when he glared into the mirror brushing his teeth, and when he watched Star Trek reruns, and when he took notes in math class, and when he played Halo 2 on X-Box live, and when he ate dinner, and when he went to sleep at night. It haunted him like a welcome specter; and it grew as he grew.

000

"Michael, pay attention," the teacher snapped, rapping the spine of her book on the edge of his desk.

Mike glared up at her without shifting his position any. He was slumped back in his chair, feet perched on the back of the desk in front of him, and he held his own copy of the book at arm's length in his left hand, while doodling in his notebook with his right.

The teacher pursed her lips distastefully at the ninth grader's raccoon-like black makeup, rebellious black clothes, and gelled hair. The only thing about the boy that didn't repulse her completely was his keen intelligence, and even that aspect of his frightened her a bit. It was a dangerous kind of intelligence, seeming as though the serpent had handed it to him, straight from the Tree of Knowledge.

"I am paying attention," he growled.

"Oh? Then you'll be able to tell us what happened in the chapters of Jane Eyre you were supposed to read for homework."

Mike set down his book, and tilted his chin up at her. "Mr. Rochester was horrifically maimed in a fire set by the insane wife he kept locked in the attic."

Sensing that his teacher would have nothing further to say, he picked up his pencil and went back to sketching. It was a picture of a large cougar, with bared fangs, and threatening claws. He'd wanted, perhaps to add a person being mauled, but thought that that might end in him being hauled off to the school councilor's office again, so he'd opted against it. He had more pressing things to do this evening then be told how disturbed he might or might not be. The bell rang, and Mike hastily shoved his things into his large book bag; he was already at the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He tensed.

It was his teacher again, Mrs. Brigsby. "Michael, may I have a word with you?"

He rolled his eyes and turned around, "Yeah, sure, whatever."

He followed her to her desk, where she sat down hiding behind her authority, and left Mike to stand before her.

"I can't let you keep drawing in my class, Michael," she told him.

Mike's scowl deepened. "Why not?" he demanded. "Are my grades going down?"

"Well, no," the English teacher admitted, "But it distracts the other students."

"Pfft, yeah right. The smart kids'll learn, and the stupid ones won't, that's the way it is."

Mrs. Brigsby adjusted her glasses. "That's quite Darwinian, Michael."

"Yeah, well, I like Darwin."

"That's rather obvious," she said derisively. "You have a very high opinion of yourself, Michael."

He glared at her witheringly, and wished she would stop calling him 'Michael'. "Did they make you my councilor now, Mrs. Brigsby?" he asked with false courtesy.

"No-"

"Then I don't have to talk to you, do I? Unless it's about my grades," he sneered, daring her to find fault with his test scores or homework. "Now, excuse me, I'm going to be late for my next class."

"You have a free next," she pointed out, irritated.

"Yeah, and I'm gonna be late for it, so excuse me," he hefted his bag on his shoulder and stomped out of the room, ignoring whatever it was the teacher had to say.

He wondered what it was about adults that made them believe they were inherently superior to anyone under the age of 25 or so. The thought that age conveyed authority was laughable, most of the adults he knew were idiots who were stuck in their ways; the only thing age meant was that you'd had more time to develop what ever might make you superior, strength, intelligence, beauty. An adult who lacked intelligence was far more pathetic than a child who did. To be commanded by fools who thought they knew better, it was insulting!

Well, Mike Teavee wasn't going to bow to anyone's authority, not until they proved that they had eared it!

Mike stalked through the upper corridor of the school, and most of his fellow students shied away from him; they had learned to avoid the quick-tempered boy who seemed to have a knack for revenging himself in little, untraceable ways. Mike smirked cruelly, remembering when he'd overheard someone vote him most likely to 'go Columbine'. As if he'd do something as idiotic as that! He intended to do great things with his life, not throw it away in a fit of stupidity, throw it certainly would be satisfying watching some of these self-important fools bleeding on the ground, begging him for their lives…

He took a breath and let the tingle of malice leave his body. He shook his head, and pushed open the glass double doors that led to his school's library and media center. Ignoring the librarian and various other inhabitants of the large room, he sat down at one of the free computers, the chains attached to his pants clanking against the metal.

Quick, precise keystrokes granted access to his student account, and he pulled up the browser. The screen booted to yahoo, and Mike's eyes were drawn to the news box in the right hand corner. He clenched his fists. He was in the news again, that damned chocolate maker, and his goody-two shoes apprentice, Charlie. Mike felt his control on his temper slipping, and his ground his knuckles into the smooth plastic of the table. He gritted his teeth to keep from tossing the keyboard away with a single swipe of his hand. He stood suddenly, the chains clinking and tapping against his thighs.

Leaving his bad where it was he stalked away into the stacks, and down the dimly lighted section out of the new library, and into the old. It had been in the basement, the old library, and though the new one had been built above it that summer, only the most relevant materials had been dragged upstairs. The basement was still cluttered with shelves, and books that no one had borrowed in thirty years. It was rare for students, or even teachers to come down there for legitimate school business; most of when on was extracurricular, and quite often, illicit.

Mike paced up and down the rows of shelves, where little light filtered down from the sparse hanging bulbs. There was a fierce, angry tension that wrapped itself around his heart. He felt like a caged animal. Coming to the very back corner of the library, his anxiety hit it's peak and he literally ripped an anonymous book from the shelf and threw it to the ground with his full force. The satisfactory THWACK it made hitting the cement floor, combined with the jerk of his own body eased him somewhat, and he closed his eyes, breathing in, and stiffening his fingers in a claw-like fashion.

He let the breath out slowly, and opened his eyes. Through an empty spot in the double shelves he saw movement between the next row; someone else was down here. He grimaced, and stepped around the stacks, peering down the row.

It was HER; Violet Beauregarde. Mike didn't know when the former Wonka winner had moved into his area, but he'd been seeing her for months, around the halls of the school, here and there, her skin and hair back to their natural pale shades. Well, mostly back, anyway, one lock of the girl's hair still retained the odd blue tint, but Mike was suspicious that it was dyed.

He had never spoken to her, nor had he ever had any desire to. Occasionally he had the urge to go up and hit her, but then he always remembered that she was a competitive black belt.

The years had filled Violet out nicely, though she hadn't gotten any taller, Mike thought she might not be able to do some of her fancy karate moves as effectively any more, at least, not without falling out of her bra. The boy sneered. Why she still chose to wear the color blue after such a traumatizing incident he didn't know, but she did Today it was sleek white pants that looked rather velvety, and accented her long legs and hips with a sky blue short sleeved oxford blouse, the first three buttons undone. She had one leg rested on the third shelf up, and was leaning her back precariously on the opposite shelf, a romance novel in hand, her index finger touched to the lower lip of her open mouth.

Mike's cold, sneering gaze had lain on her for more than a full minute before she noticed him there, arms crossed. She hastily stood straight, and glared back at him, the book disappearing behind her, her golden locks swirling around her face.

"What are you looking at?" she snapped.

Mike shrugged, wondering whether or not she recognized him. If she did, she gave no indication. He was privately both amused and frustrated by this. Was he the only oen for whom that dammed factory visit had had any impact? Could the rest of his miserable companions have walked away from the event without grudge or scar?

He took a step forward.

Violet made no movement. "I've seen you before…" she said curiously.

He noticed that she wasn't chewing any gum. "We go to the same high school," he pointed out.

"I mean before that," she replied stubbornly. "You look familiar."

"Oh yeah?" he smirked, wondering how long it'd take her to place him.

"Yes," she stuck her chin out defiantly.

Mike's lips twitched. So confident of her own superiority; could she really take him in a fight?

Violet had the book in her hand again, and she was tapping it against the shelf thoughtfully. Mike glanced at the cover, where a Johnny Depp look-alike dressed in pirate attire held a helpless young woman pinned to the wall of some castle or dungeon. Mike had the urge to do the same, to throw Violet against the bookcase, and see what it felt like to have that sort of power over a woman.

Violet herself seemed to notice her leer. Her stance widened, as if ready to defend herself. Mike chuckled. "Relax."

The blonde opened her mouth to speak, but at the same moment something seemed to click in her mind. "You're the kid from Wonka's!" she exclaimed.

"Yeah, that's right," he gave a shallow nod.

"You're not all stretched."

"And you're not all blue," he acknowledged. Then he cut to the point. "Why'd you move out here?"

Violet's eyes narrowed. "That's my business."

He smirked, running a hand through his short brown hair. "I heard you got kicked off your Karate team."

She looked suitably shocked. "Nobody knows that."

Mike grinned to himself. It had been a complete guess. "I know it."

"How?"

He shrugged. "I know lots of things."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

She crossed her arms. "Like what?"

His eyes flicked down to the book dangling in her long, pale fingers. He advanced on her again, coming closer still. "Like how you're sick of being so tough."

She stared at him incredulously, "what?" she demanded with a shake of the head.

"You heard me," he said, leaning closer still, "admit it."

She took a step back, startled when she bumped into the bookcase backwards. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do," he said, cornering her yet again, leaning his face down close to her.

"I'm warning you!"

He chuckled. "Go ahead, hurt me," he grinned, grabbing her hand and balling it into a fist. He heard the book drop to the floor. "You'll hate it. You always hate it; hate being the strong one. You want someone to hurt _you_," he put his lips beside her ear and whispered, "I want to hurt you."

Violet pulled away, eyes wide. "Leave me alone!"

Mike shook his head. "Oh but you are alone," he quoted in a low, sardonic voice, "Like a pale spring morning, still clinging to winter's chill."

He reached his hand up, and brushed his fingers with their chucky silver jewelry against the silky smoothness of her cheek. He felt her shiver, and before she could react any further, he slammed her shoulder against the shelves with his other hand, and forced his lips roughly against hers. He felt her squirming against him, there were any number of martial arts moves she could have against him, but she struggled ineffectively instead against the caress of his lips and his hands, until finally she wrenched herself free and stumbled back away from him, the hard look in her eyes unidentifiable.

"Monster," she spat, and before Mike could reply, she turned on her heel and practically ran to the staircase.

Mike wiped the side of his mouth with his wrist, removing the slightly smeared lipstick his attention had removed from Violet's lips. He wondered if she would report him for sexual harassment. He chuckled. "You liked it, you bitch," he muttered, and slumped down on the floor. He saw the romance novel, sitting there. He picked it up, tossed it up in the air, and caught it. He grasped it in both hands, and ripped it in half.

A/N: Yes, that was a quote from LOTR. This is probably a one shot, but if I get a good response, I might add to it. Obviously, this fic is deeply violent, please don't flame me for that, as that's how it's supposed to be. I'll just laugh at your stupidity, and sic Mike on you.


End file.
